Upbringing and life experience, your dad and his brother poles apart Debbie. The longer I live the more I know (rather than sense) that trauma runs through us all. Cutting across that are the expectations of what we do with it; hide or reveal. The pity is how long it takes someone to understand it, find a way to love themselves and those around them. It's a life's work.
Yes, absolutely this, Glenn. I’m grateful it only took me till my fifties. My sister still finds her traumatic childhood has hold of her. We all bear scars.
Oh, the inner life of analysing expectations and reading the (perhaps) unspoken thoughts of being 'other' Debbie; I hear and acknowledge your reading of him, and it's affect on you. Profound and long lasting.
I perceive it was like that with my mother. I didn't fit into her narrative. I turned that round by choosing to understand her in the context of her own upbringing. She died in 2020. Was I a disappointment to her, that I did not fit the mould of my brother and sister. Perhaps, but I have ripped up that script.
We all deal with this stuff as we are able. My Dad was a hard man, Glenn, no doubt result of his own environment and upbringing as we all are. It’s no excuse for violence, bullying and lack of love. His brother was a lovely man! His lack of love, aggression, and impossible standards, impacted me hugely well into my 20’s and beyond. A lasting legacy really. I did ‘forgive’ him and move on as best I could, but we were never going to be friends!
I suppose many men of his generation and traditional background were quite clear in their minds how boys would behave and turn into me, and how girls would behave before they turned into women. They didn't ask too many questions. That's just how it was. I can hear your questioning in this poem and your hope that he understood the daughter, not the achiever.
Thanks, Jane. I appreciate your response to this. He never understood me, we were simply too different. I think he had a kind of respect - in the end - for what a bookish life meant to me, even if he didn’t understand.
He was a type. Men like him didn’t understand anything outside very traditional roles. He reminds me of what my mum said about her father, who I never knew. He never wanted her to go to art school because he didn’t understand the point of it. But he backed her up to the hilt when she went her own sweet way anyway.
That’s such a shame! Times were hard then, and parents thought they were only doing their kids a favour. My gran was a teacher so there was no question of leaving school at 15, but my mum wasn’t one to be forbidden anything. Her teacher at art school put her in for admission to the RA. She didn’t get in on the grounds that her work was too dark. My granddad apparently blew a fuse and said it was because her name was Brennan and she was as good as any of them. Solidarity in the end :)
Upbringing and life experience, your dad and his brother poles apart Debbie. The longer I live the more I know (rather than sense) that trauma runs through us all. Cutting across that are the expectations of what we do with it; hide or reveal. The pity is how long it takes someone to understand it, find a way to love themselves and those around them. It's a life's work.
Yes, absolutely this, Glenn. I’m grateful it only took me till my fifties. My sister still finds her traumatic childhood has hold of her. We all bear scars.
Oh, the inner life of analysing expectations and reading the (perhaps) unspoken thoughts of being 'other' Debbie; I hear and acknowledge your reading of him, and it's affect on you. Profound and long lasting.
I perceive it was like that with my mother. I didn't fit into her narrative. I turned that round by choosing to understand her in the context of her own upbringing. She died in 2020. Was I a disappointment to her, that I did not fit the mould of my brother and sister. Perhaps, but I have ripped up that script.
We all deal with this stuff as we are able. My Dad was a hard man, Glenn, no doubt result of his own environment and upbringing as we all are. It’s no excuse for violence, bullying and lack of love. His brother was a lovely man! His lack of love, aggression, and impossible standards, impacted me hugely well into my 20’s and beyond. A lasting legacy really. I did ‘forgive’ him and move on as best I could, but we were never going to be friends!
Glad you found a path with your Mum.
I suppose many men of his generation and traditional background were quite clear in their minds how boys would behave and turn into me, and how girls would behave before they turned into women. They didn't ask too many questions. That's just how it was. I can hear your questioning in this poem and your hope that he understood the daughter, not the achiever.
Thanks, Jane. I appreciate your response to this. He never understood me, we were simply too different. I think he had a kind of respect - in the end - for what a bookish life meant to me, even if he didn’t understand.
He was a type. Men like him didn’t understand anything outside very traditional roles. He reminds me of what my mum said about her father, who I never knew. He never wanted her to go to art school because he didn’t understand the point of it. But he backed her up to the hilt when she went her own sweet way anyway.
Yes, you may be right, Jane. Funnily enough my Mum had a place at art school. Her parents forbade her from going and made her get a job at 15!
That’s such a shame! Times were hard then, and parents thought they were only doing their kids a favour. My gran was a teacher so there was no question of leaving school at 15, but my mum wasn’t one to be forbidden anything. Her teacher at art school put her in for admission to the RA. She didn’t get in on the grounds that her work was too dark. My granddad apparently blew a fuse and said it was because her name was Brennan and she was as good as any of them. Solidarity in the end :)
Brilliant!